


Confessions of a Broken Destiel Shipper

by fireintheimpala (weboverload)



Category: Supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-16
Packaged: 2018-02-20 11:35:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 1,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2427209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weboverload/pseuds/fireintheimpala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What broke the connection? ...I don't know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. August 18, 2014

**Author's Note:**

  * For [NorthernSparrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernSparrow/gifts).



**[](http://imgur.com/e1XKtPq)**

**~**

_August 18, 2014_

_I brought my Kindle with me to my afternoon appointment. I’ve taken to password protecting it, which provides me the great comfort of knowing that I can prevent others from viewing what I’m reading. This in turn has lead directly to an increase in the public reading of hardcore smut.  
_

_This afternoon, Dean and Cas were a study in the non-mutual exclusivity of innocence and wisdom as explored through the tropes of family, tradition, and consensual bondage. The story lacked a bit in angst and conflict, sagging down in the middle with a long lull of oral sex, anal play, cooking, and music, but for once I didn’t mind. Their break was a break for my own tired, hungover mind, and I let the story build a pleasant natural buzz in me as I sat in the waiting area, lounging in the afternoon sun._

_As Dean suppressed his gag reflex around Castiel’s cock in an impressively lengthy descriptive passage and another customer entered the waiting room, I began to ponder the amazing contrast of the life within these pages and the life without. It suddenly seemed remarkable that I could channel so much intensity through me, for hours and hours, without any of that energy spilling over into the gray room around me—a sad thought when viewed from the angle of shared expression and the continual growth of humanity through art…but also an awe-inspiring thought. The concept that a simple biological vessel could function as a containment field for artistic expression, consuming it and holding it all steadily inside without spilling a drop felt extraordinary._

_Unless…was it spilling over? Were there drops?  
_

_Was the passion of this text manifesting itself in ways I had yet to diagnose?_

_Did they know?_

_I wasn’t sure whether that would be a good thing or a bad thing, for art, for humanity, for the epic love tropes of Dean and Castiel, but an experiment seemed in order. I looked up from my novel and glanced around the quiet waiting room. The customer who had just entered was an unusually large man in an electric wheelchair who was still waiting for service. He had many bags and was wearing a tie-dye shirt. He seemed nice enough. “Hello,” I said.  
_

_"Hello," he said in return, then continued on to tell me many things—things about his day, his wife, his crappy broken phone, his crappy broken wheelchair, his soda-addicted son, his dislike of Walgreens. I listened and commiserated, only occasionally glancing back to check in on Cas’s epically building orgasm. I liked the guy, despite his blabbing. On his way out, he winked at me._

_Experiment: inconclusive._


	2. August 19, 2014

**[ ](http://imgur.com/cwV3wqV) **

**~**

_August 19, 2014_

_Last weekend I watched ‘Her’ with two friends. I mostly hate romantic movies despite my sappy reading preferences. Because I don’t embody the simplistic concept of perfection one protagonist finds so lovable, or because both characters exceed so many human norms, the hypothetically pro-love messages usually end up feeling more like tributes to the un-attainability of realistic love._

_But I didn’t hate this movie._

_I was two beers in when I noticed it, surrounded on both sides by people I would not be falling in love with that night. I noticed: ‘Her’ was telling the story of my summer affair. It was capturing the essence of my torrid, bizarre, satisfying, isolating, technology-driven absorption with an evolved set of literary tropes. Theodore Twombly was me. Samantha was Destiel. Evolution and technology had enabled such a dynamic reflection of my heart that I’d become enamored with the product. It was a simultaneously inspiring and depressing thought…much like the movie itself._

_At the conclusion of the movie and four beers, I attempted to explain this to my friends. There were many missing pieces in our conversation, however. What did I mean by ‘evolved tropes’? What did this have to do with Byron and Kerouac? What was I even talking about?_

_In hindsight, these areas may have been missing from the conversation due to that fact that I never got around to verbalizing them. Actual words spoken may have been more like, “Goddamn patriarchy, how come ‘Her’ is an acceptable love story but my obsession with pornographic slash fan fiction is not? Bullshit, man, bullshit. And what do you mean we’re out of beer?”_

_My friends were skeptical and confused. …It was probably fortunate the beer had run out._


	3. September 29, 2014

**[ ](http://i.imgur.com/aExvhDx.png) **

**~**

_September 29, 2014_

_The main quandary is: Is it real?_

_Additional quandaries: Was it ever real? Can it be real soon? Am I crazy? Or am I just…crazed._

_While I’m asking questions: Is it possible for the digitally-inflamed sensation of love to count for love itself? And if not, is it at least possible, maybe, that the catharsis could culminate and result in love?_

_I mean, if I gasp under my sheet-covers legitimately enough, channel the emotions of a text purely enough, might it be so? Could fictionalized reality reach such a fervor that it breaks through to reality itself?  What if ten thousand people do it? Then will art bend reality? Er…and if so, when exactly? I’d just like to know from a practical perspective. Is it after the hundredth art work? The thousandth? Or is it not really a numerical thing?_

_Furthermore, on the topic of ‘things,’ is a Platonic ideal a solid ‘thing’ or is it an unattainable limit point? And—related—would an unattainable limit point be healthy to worship…or…unhealthy?_

_And if it would be unhealthy, just askin’, are we talking lung cancer here, or merely bad skin? Because I might be willing to entertain some tradeoffs._

_There are a horrendous number of quandaries, actually. Bifurcating, multiplying, compounding… The nature of reality is an uncertainty in all aspects of life, but in this land of mediated reality and information-charged hormones the questions involved become all the more fucking intractable._

_Destiel, man. I never should have touched that shit._


	4. October 15, 2014

  **~**

_October 15, 2014_

_"Destiel will never be canon."_

_I tried the statement out, clanking the ice in my third pour of whiskey sharply against the glass. My kindle sat unsteadily in my other hand, its display a fuzzy jumble of insight on sexual awakening and coffee shops. The words settled on my tongue and I tasted them slowly, feeling a strange, liberated pleasure. This felt goood--like...stale cigarette after third glass of whiskey good. I tried a little more._

_"The real Dean Winchester could never find his way out of a closet."_

_More._

_"Actually, Dean Winchester is probably heterosexual. And a douchebag."_

_Yeah, baby. More._

_"Dean Winchester is a boring, dudebro character whose literary vibrance is being temporarily buoyed by the diversity of his besotted fan writers. One day that empire will crumble and the figment known as 'Dean Winchester' will collapse back into the cartoon he was truly written to be."_

_Shit yeah. I slammed my glass down on the table to emphasize things further. Most of the words were just in my mind at this point, flowing far more capably than they would from my tongue. Impassioned, however, I poured more whiskey and turned my attention from my kindle to my neglected bookshelf. My eyes roamed over my old books while I continued to dig into the true nature of reality to the best of my remaining abilities._

_"John Keats never got laid. Robert Anton Wilson was an irrelevant kook. Jack Kerouac was a pathetic drunk. ...Nobody reads 'Sometimes a Great Notion.' Ken Kesey's lasting legacy will be Nancy's yogurt._

_On the corner of my bookshelf was a faded piece of X-Files memorabilia and it spurred me onward._

_"Kennedy was truly killed by a sad, lone nutter.  There is no powerful elite in this world, just incompetence and greed. The Swedish pirates will never get around to buying that island or building unstoppable, flying internet hubs. Net neutrality is dead. Bitcoin is being killed by Apple."_

_Was this the time for Radiohead, I wondered? Hmmm. No...not quite.  
_

_"I'm complicit. I own an iPhone. We're all corporate whores like Dean Winchester now. Even the best of us. Even Star Trek--it began a process of degeneration in the late 90's which led to its eventual slavery to the very concepts it once rebelled against."_

_I gasped. "Just like me."_

_Oh, oh there it was--the personal hook. Yes, it was now Radiohead time! I gleefully turned back to my computer and brought up a classic. There was so much to say now that I'd gotten started on myself.  
_

> _And true love waits_

_"One of my ex-boyfriends is married and another is homeless."  
_

> _In haunted attics_

_"I'm getting fat and my neck skin is starting to sag."  
_

> _And true love lives_

_"I've stopped dreaming."  
_

> _On lollipops and crisps_

_"I don't read novels anymore, just gay porn fan fiction."  
_

> _Just don't leave_

_"Where does that even lead?"  
_

> _Don't leave_

_I  grasped my kindle and word-searched 'cock'. Yup, there it was--that was where that always led. Orgasms. Orgasms and occasional character death._

_"Ha, I've been reading William Burroughs all along."_

_At that I laughed to myself like a smartass but then twirled guiltily back towards my bookshelf to glance at the Burroughs. The others books stared accusingly back at me, their familiar embossed names pulling on my memories. This had been a bad idea I was starting to realize. Bad like the fourth glass of whiskey I'd somehow finished. I should have left poor Dean Winchester alone. What had he done wrong? I couldn't even remember anymore. Try to topple one card and they all fall... I wondered if this decision was still reversible or if the damage had gone too far._

_"I'm sorry," I muttered to the books I'd insulted. "I take it all back." They didn't say anything in return of course, but I felt drunkenly unburdened all the same._

_"Destiel can be canon, alright...Destiel is canon."_

_More._

_"And Dean Winchester is a nuanced character who probably falls somewhere interesting on the Kinsey scale."_

_More._

_"And a few people have read 'Sometimes a Great Notion.'"_


End file.
